


Coming Clean

by eren_writes



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eren_writes/pseuds/eren_writes
Summary: Every night is the same.When the candles are out and his comrades sleep soundly around him, Eren Yeager is struck by a feverish desire. Unable to keep it under control he pleasures himself, all the while lewdly imagining the things his Captain says to him on a daily basis.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another piece I had posted on another account and subsequently erased. I present it here. It's also another excuse for some simple smut.

_Do you think that's acceptable?_

Words. Words, they echo. Listlessly. Echoing in his mind, ricocheting from one bleak corner to the next. These words they echo, back and forth, endlessly. With each rebound another speck is left behind, staining him. Staining what?

His soul.

Did he have a soul? Probably not. But it felt, in that moment, as though he may have one.

And it was stained beyond white with each and every speck of dirt left in the wake of those words.

Those words that echo.

Echo endlessly.

_No, Captain._

Eren's lips were tightly shut to stop himself from speaking those two words out loud. They wrestled across his tongue until he squashed them against the roof of his mouth, felt the saliva slink lazily to the sides around the muscle and sink into the pit vacated by it.

He swallowed, felt the bob of the apple in his throat as the liquid mass escaped down his gullet. In seconds his mouth was wet again, salivating, coating the breaths in moisture as he dared replenish his sand filled lungs.

That's how they felt, as though filled with sand, kicked up by the storm inside him.

_You call that a job well done?_

His soul twisted in agony as another dark mark appeared. He focused not on that, though, but on the image his mind was replying, of the bony finger that pointed with the impossibly maintained nail on its tip at an unseen offence. He couldn't focus on the missed area now any more than he could then.

He was staring at that finger, at the way the flesh clung over the knuckle, wondering if the pad of it was calloused or smooth.

He didn't know it at the time but these words would echo across him later, reaching to him now where he replayed his admonishment over and over and over again. Back then he had stood a little stiffer, hand balled into a fist over his heart and the other nestled at the small of his back, just above his clenched ass.

He was strung tighter than a violin, his voice as scratchy as if played in unskilled hands, and if he had used his voice now he wondered if it would be as hoarse as then or deep, and guttural.

_No, Captain!_

The tender hairs at the back of his head had been gripped then, catching him by surprise and knocking him cleanly from his salute. He winced, his body lurched in the cruel grasp as his face was lowered to the floor, demanding his eyes see not the finger but the dirt it pointed to.

The dirt he had missed. Had he missed it deliberately just to arouse the attention of his captain?

Unthinkable.

Though unthinkable it was undeniable that it wasn't just pain that shot down his back as his hair was pulled. Or that was as unthinkable as his transgression, deliberate or otherwise.

He stopped his train of thought then. He missed a detail, as surely as he had missed a speck of dirt, and started it over. He swallowed the copious saliva in his mouth again and started anew, exploring in depth the sensation of his captain's hand seizing his hair.

He'd felt that sometime before, searched his hazy memory for the location of it, flinging irrelevant moments into the space of his mind like pieces of paper until he found the right one. He held it up almost proudly, reading the words off the page until the image was built in his mind's eye. The sight of his captain's foot in the seconds before it connected to his face.

The burning in his nose as the bones surely broke on the third and forth strikes, hot and bloody mucus pouring down over his mouth. It was disgusting, he had been disgusting, beaten like a dog under the foot of his master. And just like a loyal dog he had lifted his head ready to receive the next blow.

'Hng...!' Eren couldn't stop that one. His throat constricted and the gurgled noise saw its chance, jumped from his tongue and dashed to freedom. It stopped him in his tracks, body as rigid as when he saluted, only his hand was far from covering his heart. He strained his ears, listening intently, the words finally silenced.

He heard a grunt. A rustle of bedsheets. Someone scratched their balls. Perhaps all three were Jean, perhaps none.

He didn't want to think of Jean.

Eren licked his lips and took in a shaky breath. No one in the bunker seemed to stir at the sudden noise. He lifted his leg again, cocked at the knee, lifting the sheets from his sweat soaked body. He squeezed his palm and felt his own hardness unwavering, despite the fear of discovery that still clung to him.

_Do you think that's acceptable?_

Those words. He echoed them across his mind, mixed them with the memory of feeling his face pressed into the cold ground, let it play endlessly over and again. He was a child that never grew bored of the same toy, no matter how battered and worn out it was, endeavouring to enjoy the same games as if it were the first time, disregarding the knowledge that they always ended the same.

It was the same with Mikasa when they were children, on the days he came to visit with his father. Every few times she would bring him up to her room and take out her dolls, giving to him control of the boy doll with his crudely made britches and shirt and cropped wool hair.

Together, with her doll, a fictional realm of house with its mundane adventures played out between them.

He didn't want to think about Mikasa.

_You're a worthless brat._

Eren gripped himself firmly at his tip, forcing translucent fluid to ooze out and drizzle over his fingers. It wasn't his hand he felt, it wasn't his fingers that dug into him and cut off the sweetness he had been feeling. He didn't want it to be his own, he wouldn't do this to himself. He was being punished. Punished by his captain.

_Yes, Captain!_

He almost whispered. In his eagerness to comply the words swirled around his mouth like candy. Could he think of nothing else to say? No, he could not.

The palm of his hand, wetted with precum, stroked down his length to the base. It glided smoothly, the heat and warmth as delicious as any cunt – so he had heard. He'd never tried it. His cock rarely got hard so much so he questioned if it ever would.

The world was too full of cruelty to allow it, his bladder all too often close to bursting when faced with those monstrosities from over the wall that his dick was never useful for anything beyond pissing. He found out, albeit recently, that it was possible to get hard. And once it was swollen it was impossible to ignore.

Even more so when the captain's words came echoing, unwanted at first, into his blood deprived mind.

So it was that he had never fucked a girl, never had the thought to do it, too preoccupied with the impending doom of his race. In that very plight perhaps procreation was of the utmost importance. Yet it remained something elusive to him, to Eren Yeager, who pumped fruitlessly at his cock in the middle of the night when his corps members slept soundly all around him.

Maybe they all found their own time to do it, maybe some even did it as soundlessly as he tried to do it now, and together in the morning wake up earlier to bring the stained sheets out to wash by the river.

Pristine white bed linen, once as crisp as his soul, both stained by the same action. His sheet would wash out, but he was certain his soul never would. He would take both to the river in the first rays of light, before the cockerel even opened his eyes, and he would scrub recklessly at both in equal measure.

His hands would bleed before he was done.

The captain would come by before breakfast and inspect the bunkers, scrutinising with narrowed eyes every fold and crease in the sheets.

If a single one was out of place then no one would eat that day. What would the captain think to find Eren's stained with semen from the night before? His comrades opinions mattered not to him – just his.

Would he press his face into it as surely as he did the dirt in the kitchen? Rub it in, the salty scent of his own fluid drifting up his nose, rub in the shame of his midnight acts, drag his face along the rough un-brushed cotton until his cheek burns red. Throw harsh words down of disappointment, berate him until he felt like a failure.

'...Ah...' Eren's back arched as he imagined it all, his hand working his soaking cock until the gentle, rhythmic _fwap, fwap, fwap_ threatened to expose him. He couldn't stop it. It was feeling too good, the frenzy reaching fever pitch as he worked himself towards release, and slowly be began to forget that what he was doing was indecent.

No.

He couldn't forget that.

He couldn't forget that fact because he imagined his captain's voice, echoing endlessly as it did, quietly telling him how filthy he was. How indecent, disgusting, _dirty_.

His hand squeezed and pulled at his aching cock, slipping up and down the length with ease as he pleasured himself, barely holding back the torrent of whispers that built up on his lips in reply to the imagined ones in his fuzzy mind.

_Yes, Captain. I am dirty. Sorry, Captain. I am sorry for being so wretchedly filthy..._

His voice would come out muffled against the bed sheet – to that end he pulled the dull coloured fabric up, as coarse and unforgiving as the man he lusted over, and stuffed it into his mouth.

His teeth tore at it as though anchoring him down even as the rest of him soared. His toes wriggled and stretched out, digging into the mattress and kicking up the sheet there, finding momentary purchase and slipping free again with a jolt.

His whole body was trembling with the build up, quaking and on the verge of erupting. If the bed shook he knew not of it, not if his comrades gazed upon him or if his soul was dyed black.

_Captain Levi... Captain... Captain... Capt-_

All at once his pent up tension burst, gushing hot white across his frantic palm. Powerful spasms shook his slender frame, his back leaving the mattress and pushing his juddering hips up to meet each one as they came.

More and more salty fluid poured out of him in shuddering spurts, sticky and hot and wet.

Behind his lids flashes of white broke through the darkness, the almost ticklish sensation slowly subsiding as he fell back down, exhausted, spent.

That was what it was all for. Those precious few moments where he forgot who he was, what he was, what he was fighting for.

No titans, no fallen comrades.

No Connie, no Jean, no Mikasa.

He lay alone in his bunker, surrounded by his sweat, the hair of his head clinging to him as if plagued by fever. Maybe it was fever that made him do it, made him think those things.

Those things that made him blush and cringe with shame in the aftermath, even as he knew tomorrow night would be the same, just as the one before had been. It always ended the same.

With the same words ricocheting around his dirty little mind, with the same reply spilling out of him.

Curiously he lifted his hand out from the blanket, catching the scent of himself and flinching as the pungent rawness swept up to his nostrils. He was still panting, fighting to regain composure as his heart rate waned to normal beats, and be breathed deeply of himself, this raw scent of man.

Like webbing, his semen clung to his stretched fingers. He turned his wrist this way and that, seeing through the darkness everything he wanted to see and nothing at all. He tested the gooey texture with his thumb, unsure of the purpose behind his actions.

In the top drawer of his bedside cabinet was a cloth to wipe himself off with, but something stopped him reaching for it.

Just how filthy had Eren become?

He opened his mouth, hesitating further. Would it make him sick? He didn't know. He stuck his tongue out and lowered his fingers to it, drizzling semen across his palate. It was salty.

It was bitter. It was thick. It was gross.

Eren closed his lips around it and suckled them, twirling his tongue along the knuckle and around the tip, dug it under the nail and drew it deep into his mouth as far as he could without gagging. He lapped and licked until not a trace remained, only the disappointing flavourless taste of his own saliva.

He savoured his own taste before it was completely gone, lamented in its absence.

_Do you think that was acceptable?_

What did it matter if it was or if it wasn't. He had done it anyway. He stuffed his cock back under his night shirt and rolled onto his side with a heavy breath. The blanket, still damp with his drool and sweat in various places, lay over him thinly, barely offering warmth in the room.

His body was still hot though, and his feet he let poke out the other end. He wriggled his toes.

Tomorrow he would rise before anyone else and wash his sheets down by the river, waking even before the cockerel, though he knows they will never truly come clean.

 

 

 


End file.
